"Billy the Kid" Denehy rages on: one pitch to Willie Mays changed everything.

• Author: Denehy, Bill
• Position: Athletic Arena

IN 1967, I had every reason to be optimistic about my future. The year before, I had pitched for Double-A Williamsport, and had a 9-2 record with a 1.97 earned run average. I had been named Pitcher of the Year in the Eastern League. I was promoted to Triple-A Jacksonville and, even though I had not pitched very well there, I was sure I would make it to the majors. I was cocky, though I never saw it as cockiness. I felt I was self-confident. Everyone else said I was cocky. I wondered why the New York Mets had bothered to send me to the minors at all. I had some trouble getting my breaking ball over but, in my mind, I felt I had big league talent and already should have started my professional career with the big boys.

I was not the only phenom on the Mets' roster. New York's National League franchise had a number of excellent young pitching prospects in the minor leagues, including Tom Seaver and Jerry Koosman. Scouts swore I was just as talented as they were, if not more so. In fact, in the Mets' 1967 yearbook, "Billy the Kid" Denehy got more press than the fair-haired Seaver, die All-American college star from California who was certain to make the jump from Triple-A ball to the big club--which he did, winning National League Rookie of the Year honors.

In my first start as a Met, I struck out eight Philadelphia Phillies to set a club rookie record that stood until 2012.1 had a blazing fastball and a wicked curve, but the Mets had a poor-hitting team, and I lost three close games. Then in May I took the mound against pitching great Juan Marichal and the San Francisco Giants. With my body bursting with adrenaline, I pitched three shutout innings. In the fourth frame, though, I threw a pitch that changed the course of my entire life.

If I had known what was going to happen, I would have taken the pitch back, but life does not work that way. One day you are headed for greatness, and the next day you are falling into a deep chasm with no end in sight and nothing to break your fall. I threw Willie Mays a hard slider, and it felt like someone stuck a knife in my shoulder. My days of excellence were pretty much over before they began. I would hang on to my professional career for parts of four more sorry seasons and, in my final campaign in Detroit, I assumed the reviled role of designated headhunter for Tigers manager Billy Martin. Tom Seaver, the other guy on my rookie card, won 311 games with an ERA of 2.86, pitching himself into the Hall of...